I Was a Poet Once

I was a poet once, as we all were, I assume. Notebooks filled with passionately pale verses, begging to be meaningful to someone. An identity formed around a desire to say something no one else could. Somewhere in me there was a beautiful wisdom waiting to grace the world.

Stanza after stanza of stolen rhymes and repeated themes, feeling authenticity at my fingertips. When rock-stardom loomed, poetry turned to lyrics, turned to the perpetual ballad of unrequited love. Authenticity became overrated, as it always does.

What is authenticity anyway in a world of billions of people? Whatever my voice, someone else already had it. Whatever my emotion, someone else had already expressed it. As reality became too real, so did the empty pages in every notebook stashed around my room. There they stayed, collecting dust instead of verse.

Yet that poetic core never quite left. As the music faded and life forged ahead, the pursuit of the lyrical held its grasp on me. So now I write, not because I want to, but because something tells me I must. Each time I try to quit, I realize I’ll never have the strength to do so.

Because I was a poet once, as I am now, I suppose.